by Nora Roberts
A tall, svelte brunette stood by the desk, surrounded by a clutter of shocking pink luggage. Her pencil-slim form was draped in a teal blue suit of raw silk. The scent of gardenias floated toward B.J.
“If you’ll see to my luggage, darling, and tell Mr. Reynolds I’m here, I’d be very grateful.” She addressed these requests in a low, husky voice to Eddie who stood gaping beside her.
“Hello, Darla. What are you doing here?”
At Taylor’s voice, the dark head turned. B.J. noted the eyes were nearly the same shade as the exquisite suit.
“Taylor.” Impossibly graceful on four-inch heels, Darla glided across the lobby to embrace Taylor warmly. “I’m just back from checking on the job in Chicago. I knew you’d want me to look this little place over and give you my ideas.”
Disengaging himself, Taylor met Darla’s glowing smile with an ironic smile. “How considerate of you. B.J. Clark, Darla Trainor. Darla does the majority of my decorating, B.J. manages the inn.”
“How interesting.” Darla gave B.J.’s sweater and jeans a brief, despairing glance and patted her own perfectly styled hair. “From what I’ve seen so far, my work is certainly cut out for me.” With a barely perceptible shudder, Darla surveyed the lobby’s hand hooked rugs and Tiffany lamps.
“We’ve had no complaints on our decor.” B.J. leaped to the inn’s defense.
“Well.” She was given a small, pitying smile from deeply colored lips. “It’s certainly quaint, isn’t it? Rather sweet for Ma and Pa Kettle. You’ll have to let me know, Taylor, if you plan to enlarge this room.” Transferring her attention, Darla’s expression softened and warmed. “But, of course, red’s always an eye-catcher. Perhaps red velvet drapes and carpeting.”
B.J.’s eyes darkened to flint. “Why don’t you take your red velvet drapes and . . .”
“I believe we’ll discuss this later,” Taylor said diplomatically, tightening his hold on B.J.’s arm. Struggling to prevent herself from crying with the pain, B.J. found argument impossible.
“I’m sure you’d like to get settled in,” she forced out between clenched lips.
“Of course.” Darla viewed B.J.’s brief outburst with a fluttering of heavy lashes. “Come up for a drink, Taylor. I assume this place has room service.”
“Of course. Have a couple of martinis sent up to Miss Trainor’s room,” Taylor said to Eddie. “What’s your room number, Darla?”
“I don’t believe I have one yet.” Again using her extensive lashes to advantage, Darla turned to a still dazed Eddie. “There seems to be a small communication problem.”
“Give Miss Trainor 314, Eddie, and see to her bags.” The sharp command in B.J.’s voice snapped Eddie’s daydream, and he scurried to comply. “I hope you find it suitable.” B.J. turned her best managerial smile on her new and unwelcome guest. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll see to your drinks.”
Taylor’s hand held her still another moment. “I’ll speak with you later.”
“Delighted,” B.J. returned, feeling the circulation slowly returning to her arm as he released it. “I’ll wait to be summoned at your convenience, Mr. Reynolds. Welcome to the Lakeside Inn, Miss Trainor. Have a nice stay.”
***
It was a simple matter to avoid a private meeting with Taylor as he spent the remainder of the day in Darla Trainor’s company. They were closeted in 314 for what seemed to B.J. a lifetime. To boost her ego B.J. decided to phone Howard. They arranged a date for the following evening. Well, at least Howard doesn’t closet himself downing martinis with Miss Glamorpuss, she thought. Somehow this knowledge was not as comforting as it should have been.
***
The dress B.J. had chosen for dinner was black and sleek. It molded her subtle curves with a lover’s intimacy, falling in a midnight pool around her ankles, with a gentle caress for thighs and calves. Small pearl buttons ran from her throat to her waist. The high, puritanical neckline accentuated her firm, small breasts and emphasized her slender neck. She left her hair loose to float in a pale cloud around her shoulders. She touched her scent behind her ears before leaving her room to descend to the dining room.
The candle-lit, corner table where Taylor sat with Darla was intimate and secluded. Glancing in their direction, B.J. could not suppress a scowl. There was no denying that they were a handsome couple. Made for each other, she thought bitterly. Darla’s vermilion sheath plunged to reveal the creamy swell of her breasts. Taylor’s dark suit was impeccably cut. In spite of herself, B.J.’s eyes were drawn to the breadth of his shoulders. She drew in her breath sharply, recalling the feel of his corded muscles now expertly concealed by the fine tailoring, and shivered involuntarily.
Taylor glanced over, his expression indefinable as he made a slow, exacting survey, his eyes lingering on the gentle curves draped in the simplicity of unrelieved black. Though her skin grew warm, B.J. met his eyes levelly. Examination complete, Taylor lifted one brow, whether in approval or disapproval, she could not determine. With a brief gesture of his hand, he ordered B.J. to his table.
Fuming at the casual insolence of the command, she schooled her features into tranquility. She wove her way through the room, deliberately stopping to speak with diners along the route.
“Good evening.” B.J. greeted Taylor and his companion with a professional smile. “I hope you’re enjoying your meal.”
“As always, the food is excellent.” Taylor rose and pulled up a chair expectantly. His eyes narrowed in challenge. It was not the moment to cross him, B.J. decided.
“I trust your room pleases you, Miss Trainor,” she said pleasantly, as she sat down.
“It’s adequate, Miss Clark. Though I must say, I was rather taken aback by the decorating scheme.”
“You’ll join us for a drink,” Taylor stated, motioning a waitress over without waiting for B.J.’s consent. She glared at him for a moment before she glanced up at Dot.
“My usual,” she said, not feeling obliged to explain this was a straight ginger ale. She turned back to Darla, coating her voice with polite interest. “And what is it about the decorating which took you aback, Miss Trainor?”
“Really, Miss Clark,” Darla began as though the matter was obvious. “The entire room is provincial, don’t you agree? There are some rather nice pieces, I admit, if one admires American antiques, but Taylor and I have always preferred a modern approach.”
Fighting her annoyance and an all too unwanted spasm of jealousy, B.J. said sarcastically, “I see. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on the modern approach for this country bumpkin. I so seldom get beyond the local five and dime.”
Dot set B.J.’s drink in front of her and scurried away, recognizing storm warnings.
“In the first place,” Darla began, immune to her frosty gray eyes, “the lighting is all wrong. Those glass domed lamps with pull chains are archaic. You need wall to wall carpeting. The hand hooked rugs and faded Persians will have to go. And the bathroom . . . Well, needless to say, the bathroom is hopeless.” With a sigh, Darla lifted her champagne cocktail and sipped. “Footed tubs belong in period comedies, not in hotels.”
B.J. chewed on a piece of ice to keep her temper from boiling over. “Our guests have always found a certain charm in the baths.”
“Perhaps,” Darla acknowledged with a depreciating shrug. “But with the proper changes and improvements, you’ll be catering to a different type of clientele.” She drew out a slim cigarette, giving Taylor a brief flutter of lashes as he lit it.
“Do you have any objections to footed tubs and pull chains?” B.J. asked him, voice precise, eyes stormy.
“They suit the present atmosphere of the inn.” His voice was equally precise, his eyes cool.
“Maybe I’ve got a few fresh ideas for you, Miss Trainor, if and when you pull out your little book of samples.” Setting down her glass, B.J. watched from the corner of her eye as Taylor flicked his lighter at the end of his cigarette. “Mirrors should be good on the ceiling in part
icular. Just a light touch of decadence. Lots of chrome and glass to give the rooms that spacious, symmetrical look. And white, plenty of white as well, perhaps with fuchsia accents. The bed, of course,” she continued with fresh inspiration. “A large circular bed with fuchsia coverings. Do you like fuchsia, Taylor?”
“I don’t believe I asked for your advice on decorating tonight, B.J.” Taylor drew casually on his cigarette. The smoke traveled in a thin column toward the exposed beam ceiling.
“I’m afraid, Miss Clark,” Darla commented, spurred on by Taylor’s mild reproof, “that your taste runs to the vulgar.”
“Oh really?” B.J. blinked as if surprised. “I suppose that’s what comes from being a country bumpkin.”
“I’m sure whatever I ultimately decide will suit you, Taylor.” Darla placed a hand with easy familiarity on his as B.J.’s temper rose. “But it will take a bit longer than usual as the alterations will be so drastic.”
“Take all the time you need.” B.J. gestured with magnanimity as she rose. “In the meantime, keep your hands off my footed tubs.”
The dignity of her exit was spoiled by a near collision with Dot who had been discreetly eavesdropping.
“An order of arsenic for table three . . . on the house,” B.J. muttered, skirting around the wide eyed waitress and sweeping from the room.
B.J.’s intention to stalk straight to her room and cool off was undone by a series of small, irritating jobs. It was after ten when the last had been dealt with and she was able to shut the door to her room and give vent to suppressed temper.
“Country bumpkin,” she hissed through clenched teeth. Her eyes rested on a William and Mary table. She’d probably prefer plastic cubes in black and white checks. Her eyes moved from the dower chest to the schoolmaster’s desk and on to the Bostonian rocker and wing chair in softly faded green. Each room of the inn was distinctive, with its own personality, its own treasures. Closing her eyes, B.J. could clearly see the room which Darla now occupied, the delicate pastel of the flowered wallpaper, the fresh gleams of the oak floor, the charm of the narrow, cushioned window seat. The pride of that particular room was an antique highboy in walnut with exquisite teardrop pulls. B.J. could not recall an occasion when a guest who had stayed in that room had done other than praise its comforts, its quiet charm, its timeless grace.
Darla Trainor, B.J. vowed, is not getting her hands on my inn. Walking to the mirrored bureau, she stared at her reflection, then let out a long disgusted breath. She’s got a face that belongs on a cameo, and mine belongs on a milk commercial, she thought. Picking up her brush, she told herself that these reflections had nothing to do with the problem at hand.
How am I going to convince Taylor that the inn should stay as it is when she’s already rattling off changes and giving him intimate smiles? I suppose, B.J. continued, giving her reflection a fierce scowl, she’s not just his decorator. The kiss she gave him when she arrived wasn’t very businesslike. I don’t believe for a moment they spent all that time in her room discussing fabrics.
That’s no concern of mine, she decided with a strong tug of the brush. But if they think they’re going to start steaming off wallpaper without a fight, they’re in for a surprise. She put down her brush and turned just as the door swung open to admit Taylor.
Before her astonished eyes, he closed and locked her door before placing the key in his pocket. As he advanced toward her, she could see that he was obviously angry.
“Being the owner doesn’t give you the right to use the master key without cause,” she snapped, as she backed against the bureau.
“It appears I haven’t made myself clear.” Taylor’s voice was deceptively gentle. “You have, for the time being, a free hand in the day to day managing of this inn. I have not, nor do I desire to infringe upon your routine. However—” He took a step closer. B.J. discovered her hands were clutching the edge of the bureau in a desperate grip. “All orders, all decisions, all changes in policy come from me, and only me.”
“Of all the dictatorial . . .”
“This isn’t a debate,” he cut her off sharply. “I won’t have you issuing orders over my head. Darla is employed by me. I tell her what to do, and when to do it.”
“But surely you don’t want her to toss out all these lovely old pieces for gooseneck floor lamps and modular shelving. The server in the dining room is Hepplewhite. There’re two Chippendale pieces in your room alone, and . . .”
The hand which moved from the back of her neck to circle her throat halted B.J.’s furious rush of words. She became uncomfortably aware of the strength of his fingers. No pressure was applied, but the meaning was all too evident.
“Whatever I want Darla to do is my concern, and my concern only.” He tightened his grip, bringing her closer. Now B.J. read the extent of his anger in his eyes. Like two dark suns, they burned into hers. “Keep your opinions to yourself until I ask for them. Don’t interfere or you’ll pay for it. Is that understood?”
“I understand perfectly. Your relationship with Miss Trainor has overruled any opinion of mine.”
“That—” his brow lifted “—is none of your business.”
“Whatever concerns the inn is my business,” B.J. countered. “I offered you my resignation once, and you refused it. If you want to get rid of me now, you’ll have to fire me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He lowered his hand and rested his fingers on the top button of her bodice. “I have my reasons for wanting you around, but don’t push it. I agreed to keep you abreast of any alterations I decide on, but if you persist in being rude to others in my employ, you’ll be out on your ear.”
“I can’t see that Darla Trainor needs protection from me,” B.J. remarked resentfully.
“Don’t you?” His temper appeared to drift toward amusement as he scanned her face. “A couple of centuries ago, you’d have been burned at the stake for looking as you do at this moment. Hell smoke in your eyes, your mouth soft and defiant, all that pale hair tumbling over a black dress.” Deftly, his fingers undid the top button and moved down to the next as his eyes kept hers a prisoner. “That dress is just puritanical enough to be seductive. Was it accident or design that you wore it tonight?”
With casual ease, he unloosed half the range of buttons, continuing his progress as his gaze remained fixed on hers.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Yet her traitorous feet refused to walk away. B.J. found herself powerless to move. “I want . . . I want you to go.”
“Liar,” he accused quietly, his hands slipping inside the opened front of her dress. His fingers traced lightly over her skin. “Tell me again you want me to go.” His hands rose, his thumbs moving gently under the curve of her breasts. The room began to sway like the deck of a ship.
“I want you to go.” Her voice was husky, her lids felt heavy with a tantalizing languor.
“Your body contradicts you, B.J.” His hands claimed her breasts briefly before sliding to the smooth skin of her back. He brought her hard against him. “You want me just as much as I want you.” His mouth lowered to prove his point.
Surrendering to a force beyond her understanding, B.J. rested in his arms. His demands increased with her submission, his mouth drawing the response she had no strength to withhold. While her mind screamed no, her arms drew him closer. The warnings to run were lost as his lips moved to the vulnerable skin of her throat, teasing the softness with tongue and teeth. She could only cling and fret for more. Mouth returned to mouth. While his hands roamed, arousing fresh pleasure, hers slipped under his jacket.
With a suddenness that gave her no time for defense, no thought of resistance, he fell deep into her heart. He claimed its untouched regions with the deftness of a seasoned explorer. The emotion brought B.J. to a spinning ecstasy which vied with a crushing, hopeless despair. To love him was certain disaster, to need him, undeniable misery, to be in his arms, both the darkness and the light. Trapped in the cage of her own desire, she would never find escape.
/> Helpless to do other than answer the hunger of his mouth, submit to the caressing journey of his hands, she felt the sting of emptiness behind her closed lids. Her arms pulled him closer to avert the insidious chill of reason.
“Admit it,” he demanded, his lips moving again to savage her throat. “Admit you want me. Tell me you want me to stay.”
“Yes, I want you.” The words trembled on a sob as she buried her face in his shoulder. “Yes, I want you to stay.”
She felt him stiffen and burrowed deeper until his hand forced her face to his. Her eyes were luminous, conquering the darkness with the glimmer of unshed tears. Her mouth was soft and tremulous as she fought the need to throw herself into his arms and weep out her newly discovered love. For eternity, he stared, and she watched without comprehension as his features hardened with fresh temper. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm and composed and struck like a fist on the jaw.
“It appears we’ve gotten away from the purpose of this meeting.” Stepping away, his hands retreated to his pockets. “I believe I’ve made my wishes clear.”
She shook her head in confusion. As her hand lifted to her tousled hair, the opening of her dress shifted in innocent suggestion over creamy skin. “Taylor, I . . .”
“Tomorrow—” she shivered as the coolness of his voice sapped the warmth from her skin “—I expect you to give Miss Trainor your complete cooperation, and your courtesy. Regardless of your disagreement, she is a guest of the inn and shall be treated as such.”
“Of course.” The hated tears began to flow as pain and rejection washed over her. “Miss Trainor shall be given every consideration.” She sniffed, brushed at tears and continued with dignity. “You have my word.”
